


Lone Obsession

by Dean_Wax



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Betrayal, Blood, Dom/sub, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Gore, Humiliation, Immortality, Kissing, M/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Mutilation, Narcissism, Obsession, Power Dynamics, Restraints, Sadism, Sensuality, Stalking, Touch-Starved, Trauma, University, Violence, Voyeurism, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-10-18 22:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17589200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dean_Wax/pseuds/Dean_Wax
Summary: He leads me down a long corridor and as he walks, my eyes widen to saucers when his manicured hands wrap around his taught hips and dip below the waistband of his slacks, pulling out the hem of his billowing shirt and peeling it over his head. The expanse of his back is perfect, smooth and pale, except for one, solitary freckle on his right shoulder blade.As if he can hear my thoughts, he looks over his shoulder and gives me an easy-going smile. “Do you like it?” he asks with a chuckle. "A photographer once called it a beauty mark. Can you believe the flattery? I was taken with the statement at the time, I even slept with him twice, albeit four months apart."===He's so beautiful, I could scream. What kind of cruel god would make such a man? I can't figure him out. It's maddening. I'd gnaw off right arm just to know what he was thinking. Christ, I'd let him skin me and make a fur coat if he would just look over at me in the lecture hall and say my name. But he's not interested in me, is he? Not me-me, two-legged me. He only cares about the wolf.





	1. A Portrait of Elliot Lane

There’s a portrait of Elliot Lane hanging in the university library. Twice as large as life and painted in the Romanticist style, with his pallor exaggerated by face powder and a careful application of cherry chapstick on the inside of his lips. It was painted by a Fine Arts major; I saw him looking over samples of the woman’s port folio before he agreed to model for her. Maybe he bought it and donated it, or maybe the university swiped it up for its collection - I was never able to find that out. Nevertheless, Elliot's painted face has watched over the library for a year now. Beneath that portrait, as if to remind us all that there’s slim difference between this artistic rendering and his real presence, there is a desk where he always sits. 

 

I think he enjoys it. Maybe. He’s difficult to read. He certainly visits the library often; girls and boys alike come to ogle him from afar. Not very many have the gumption to go up and talk to him, myself included. He's earned something of a reputation as a beautiful ghost at this school: always quiet, always got his nose in a book, or gracefully taking notes with a fountain pen, or sometimes even a quill. A quill! Only Elliot Lane could pull it off. Needless to say, of the few bold enough to approach him, most are effortlessly rejected. But there are some. Some impossibly mad, impossibly lucky sods who get to spend time with him. Only men. I’ve learned that now.  Transfer students have a better chance. Guest lecturers and men about to graduate, too. They’re all temporary connections, you see. He never keeps their company more than once.

 

Elliot is alone.

 

I mean that both literally and figuratively. It’s part of what makes him so fascinating. He’s very elusive; he doesn’t have social media accounts, although he does own a cell phone, he rarely touches it. Not that he’s anti-social; far from it. I’ve had to piece together a complex network of all the social butterflies in the greater urban area in the hopes that he might show up in one of their feeds at some grand event or intimate, artistic experience.

 

Sometimes, even that’s not enough. The Lane family has some of the oldest money in the country. I mean that literally, too; his family have money tied up in about half of the museums and art galleries in the country. Maybe more. He already has his Masters in Archaelogy, now he’s enrolled for Art History. I don’t know how old he is. He must be at least thirty, right? He doesn’t look thirty. Doesn’t look like he’s had botox, either. Maybe it’s skin cream. God, if I could just get inside his house, I’d have a field day.

 

I lean too close to the library window and my breath fogs the glass. I step back quickly, on instinct, but it doesn’t matter. It’s late at night; too early in the term for anyone to be cramming for exams. This section of the outdoor corridor is dark, like always, because I break the lights so often that they just stopped replacing them. What’s one patch of dark in a whole grounds of quaint lanterns set against historical architecture? The perfect place for guys like me, that’s what. 

 

God, I could watch him all night, but at the same time, I can’t. My stomach is growling. The ache’s been coming on for a few days, now; I have to get some food in me soon or it’ll all go to shit. If I wasn’t so attached to Elliot’s orbit, I might have chosen somewhere far away from campus to grab a bite. Oh, well. It ended up being a janitor, pottering about in a maintenance room of some kind. I ripped out his throat before he could even scream. Chewing out that soft part and slurping up the blood is the easy part; after that, you really have to savage the abdomen to get at all the good insides (bar the stomach and intestines, mind you). Otherwise, all you’re doing is just hanging around, chewing fuck-all meat off bones. It might be nice to sever an arm and take it away for my leisure, but that’s really not the kind of bone one wants buried in their backyard. I usually have quite a clean-up job ahead of me after nights like this.   
  
I should mention that I’m not always human. Shifting back and forth between man and wolf is easy for me; no strings attached, no waiting for the moon, no nothing. That’s just the way it is, ever since I fell in with a rough crowd when I was a kid. A real close-knit pack, just not so much with me in particular. It’s okay; I get it. Sometimes camaraderie just doesn’t happen. I’m not really that likeable but I’m not that cut up about it, either. I don’t need the world to hold my hand and be my friend, but I do need to soothe the beast with a decent feed, otherwise it’d be a free-for-all. I could hurt real people, who matter. Kids, mums, tenured professors... I could even take a bite out of Elliot. Ha! As if. I can’t even bring myself to talk to him. The thought of  _ touching  _ him, of tasting his flesh, his  _ blood _ ?! Forget about it.    
  
So anyway, there I am, happily chowing away on an elderly nobody, blood in my maw and the gentle night air ruffling my white-grey fur. It’s peaceful; serene, even. Which is why I let my guard down. I somehow missed the echo of footsteps on the pavement, but the gasp? That was thunderous. That was a life-changing moment for me, pricking my ears up and lifting my head only to see his face in the doorway, perfect features arranged in a perfect composition of shock. Elliot Lane. 

 

Christ, even now, his pale skin takes on a golden glow in the lamplight and I can see the shimmer in the fabric of those billowing, poet’s shirts he wears. A single strand of his ash-brown hair is loose from his coiffe; whether that’s from the fright of seeing this or just the toll of a long study session, I don’t know. But I do know that it would be very, very, bad if he were to scream, or worse yet, whip out his phone and call animal control, or the police. Easy, Elliot. We’re all friends here. If you’ll just let me nip out the door, I’ll disappear into the night and you’ll never see me again. Not with four legs, at least.    
  
I’ve barely set a paw down when he suddenly pushes the door open and I freeze. For a fleeting moment, I think he’s genuinely going to shoo me out like some bad dog, but he doesn’t do that. Doesn’t run, either. He does stop, looks down carefully at his shoe and steps to one side to avoid the blood pooling from Mr. Janitor’s artery. There’s a little smear at the edge of it out in the hall and my heart beats faster as I realise he’s stepped in my mess. How embarrassing. It’s getting me all anxious, now. I can feel my hackles tingling. I don’t want him to see me like this! What must he be thinking? I’m a savage, wild animal with a face dripping in blood. I’ll probably scar him for life. He’ll need counselling, he’ll have to pull out of university, and it’ll be all my fault!   
  
“Hush,” he coos.   
  
What? No. No one’s that crazy. He’s coming closer! My tail snaps between my legs before I can stop it (hate that; always hated that) but he doesn’t miss a beat. Elliot Lane’s perfect, manicured hand is reaching out for me as if I’m just a scared pussy cat. He’s crouching down on my level, and I’m dying; I’ve died, because there’s no way this could be rea--aa _ aaah _ ! AAAAAHH! HE’S TOUCHING ME!

 

I don’t know what to do. Do I bark? Fuck, no, that would make him stop. Oh god, yes, don’t stop. That’s the spot, right there, behind my ear, you fucking beautiful man, yes…    
  
He smiles at me, and it’s the warmest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like the mangled corpse isn’t even there, for how much attention he pays to it. No; both beautiful, grey-blue eyes are on me. I don’t think I’ve been noticed or had this much attention in… well, years, really. It’s a sad thing. I thought I was ready to do anything he asked before but now I know that I would do anything, anything, as long as he’d keep running his fingers through my fur like that. I close my eyes and tip my head back, tail wagging luxuriously. That’s probably shattered some of the mystique of the wild beast. Or maybe not, because all of a sudden, he asks me:

  
“Would you… like to come home with me?”   
  
All my life, I’ve dreamed of such a thing. These last few years in particular, ever since Elliot caught my attention (and how could he  _ not  _ catch my attention?). Swooning, I stand up on all four feet, pushing my fuzzy head up against his palm with a delighted murr. He chuckles, and it’s a bright, soul-healing sound, before he raises himself elegantly back to his full height and retracts his blessed hand, stowing it in the pocket of his slacks.    
  
“Well, come on, then,” he smiles, inclining his head towards the door. “It’s not far.”   
  
And that was how it started. If my head had been clearer, I might have thought things through a little bit more, but as it was, I hopped right over that half-eaten human and followed this benevolent god out into the night. One just doesn’t pass up this kind of opportunity, even if it is too good to be true.


	2. A Revealing Welcome

I try not to take the lead as I follow Elliot down the dimly-lit corridor in the cool night air, even though I know exactly where he lives and the route he often takes to get there (not the shortest route, but the most beautiful; through the university grounds and across the park to an affluent part of town). I try not to let a happy canter creep into my gait, either; although it would help me appear more dog-like, which is really something I should be thinking about right now, out in public like this, it would also shatter some of the wolf-like mystique that scored me this invitation to Elliot Lane’s townhouse in the first place, and we can’t have that.

 

I really do hope any passers-by take me for a big dog, though. I don’t really take walks in town transformed like this. If anyone could pull off taking a stroll with a huge, exotic animal, it would probably be Elliot Lane, but even then it might be a stretch. I don’t think you can have a wolf as a pet without a permit, so if someone calls Animal Control, it’s all over. It would help if I didn’t have a face full of blood, too.    
  
“Perhaps you’d like to take a drink?” he speaks quietly, stopping to a halt.

 

I falter, realising that we’ve already reached the fountain in the courtyard at the back of the campus grounds. I may have been watching the curve of his arse sway in his high-waisted slacks instead of properly paying attention to our surroundings. Blinking at the fountain, I see he’s one step ahead of me in more ways than one. I approach the water’s edge and stick my face in, shaking my head in the hopes that it it will dislodge most of Mr. Janitor’s blood. Hopefully it hasn’t been long enough for any of it to congeal or cake on. Of course, I could just slip back into my human skin and transform again with a clean slate, but that’s not really an option with present company. Pulling my head back, I wait for the water to settle enough to make out my reflection in moonlight. I seem clean enough. 

 

He’s watching me, I realise. It makes my spine tingle. He doesn’t usually look at me like this, not when I’m in his orbit as a human being. I’m not used to the attention. Fortunately, wolves can’t blush.   
  
“I knew you were special,” he smiles, adjusting the strap of his leather messenger bag.    
  
Turning my head, I blink back at him. It’s true, but I mean… I’m not sure how he was able to make that call. Don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatic this is happening, but sometimes I worry that his attraction to the strange and wonderful is going to get him into trouble. There can be some unsavoury types among those artists and connoisseurs. It’s not all clean-cut trust fund kiddies seeking out content for their Instagram. Trust me, I know.

 

“Shall we carry on?” he asks breezily, running his fingers through his hair with a serene expression. No more loose strand of hair now.    
  
Shaking my head to get rid of some of the excess water, I hop down from the fountain and set off down the path, my toenails clicking quietly on the cement. He titters and I freeze, realising that I’m taking the lead again. Fuck! I’m not supposed to know the way to his house.   
  
“No, you’re right,” he says warmly, falling into step beside me. “It is this way.”

 

How sweet the benefit of the doubt can feel. I let it wash over me, tail perked up with the buoy of relief. Walking alongside him like this, I could just be mistaken for Elliot’s faithful hound. I try not to let my flank brush up against his leg as we walk through the park, surrounded by the rustling of leaves and the distant, faraway sounds of traffic. We’re lucky; hardly anyone’s out tonight. The few people we see are at a distance, so I’m able to pass off my dog disguise quite easily, all the way to the immaculate, polished, wooden door set with a stainless steel number seven.   
  
“I live alone,” he announces with the click of the key in the lock. “It’s one of the family homes, but they rarely visit unless they’re coming to exchange an artifact or antique. And my sister won’t step foot outside of Singapore unless someone dies or gets married,” he scoffs with laughter, standing aside to let me scamper into the entrance hall.

 

My heart skips a beat as I realised he was going to speak about his personal life. This is gold! He doesn’t… god, I don’t want to say that he doesn’t have  _ friends  _ because he’s around people and getting invites to social events  _ constantly _ (it’s annoying) but he doesn’t talk to them about stuff like this. He just talks to them about art or literature or philosophy or sensations or something, anything, whatever’s happening right then and there. Even just the fact that he has parents and a sister is an unprecedented discovery. 

 

“Welcome to my home,” he says with a brief gesture as I hop over an opulent Persian rug serving as a doormat. 

 

Standing perfectly still on the floorboards, I look around and try to contain my excitement as he hangs up his bag and steps out of his shoes, elegantly dipping down to pick them up and stow them in a shoe cubby. The whole place is immaculate, of course. He must have daytime servants, plus he’s a very clean man, himself. I can always smell the deodorant and shampoo on him, plus a very subtle eau de toilette from a selection of three. Tonight, it’s something with flowers in it. Jasmine. I catch a fresh whiff of it as he passes me and pads up the stairs in his socks. I have to say this is the first time I’ve negotiated stairs with four legs, but I manage well enough.

 

I can see what he means by his parents coming by to “exchange antiques”. The whole house is a smorgasbord of leather-bound books, portraits, grandfather clocks, sculptures and other ancient curios. If the label on a small glass case housing a fragment of jawbone is to be believed, it’s over 200,000 years old. I have no idea how much something like that is worth, but it’s never been a secret that Elliot is absolutely dripping in money. He must have access to account that puts my tidy little trust fund to shame, and that’s saying something.  

 

I wonder where we’re going. It’s a townhouse, yes, but it’s a  _ millionaire’s _ townhouse, so it’s still rather big. He leads me down a long corridor and as he walks, my eyes widen to saucers when his manicured hands wrap around his taught hips and dip below the waistband of his slacks, pulling out the hem of his billowing shirt and peeling it over his head. The expanse of his back is perfect, smooth and pale, except for one, solitary freckle on his right shoulder blade.

 

As if he can hear my thoughts, he looks over his shoulder and gives me an easy-going smile. “Do you like it?” he asks with a chuckle. "A photographer once called it a beauty mark. Can you believe the flattery? I was taken with the statement at the time, I even slept with him twice, albeit four months apart."   
  
I’m floored by this information. Even my ears flatten against my skull. Fortunately, he’s already turned his back, leading me into a laundry room of some kind. As he folds his shirt before dropping it into a clothes hamper, I take a seat in the doorway try to console myself. I’ve always known that he sleeps with a lot of men (god, who wouldn’t, with a body like that?) but it’s always been once. You get one chance before he moves on to the next experience, then that’s it. For him to break these rules is just so…  _ off-brand _ for Elliot Lane, I don’t know how to take it. Did they fuck in a different way, the second time? Is that it? Oral the first time, then anal, or vice versa? Did they get kinky with it and do something crazy, high on the thrill of this compliment, did they slip out to the back alley behind some photography studio in wherever-the-fuck and fall into each other’s arms up against a brick wal--

 

The sound of a zipper snaps my attention back to Elliot, ears pricked. With complete and utter attention, I watch as he shucks his trousers off his pale hips and slide the fabric down his long, smooth legs. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as he reveals a pair of black designer boxer briefs. Will he take those off, too? I dare not hope. It might be too much. The tension grows as he folds his briefs and drops them into the hamper designated for dark clothes. He takes off his socks next, one by one, and drops them into the hamper, too. Even his toes look manicured. I wonder if there’s any part of him that’s not perfect, and by that I definitely do mean his cock. Does he trim his pubes? Does he shave them? 

 

I adjust my weight on my front paws as he suddenly slides his thumbs under the elastic waistband of his underwear and strips nude. Incredible. Even in profile, his bare skin makes my heart sing. And all of his movements are so fluid, so natural; not a hint of nerves. I don’t think I could be so calm taking off my clothes in front of someone else, even if it was an animal. Then again… people are always looking at Elliot, aren’t they? How could they resist? Is he used to it, then, having all these eyes on him? I don’t think it’s an exhibitionist thing, I mean… his cock’s soft, of course it is. I’d be concerned if it wasn’t, honestly. But he’s so relaxed, it’s impressive. A completely open book - as long as it’s about his physical appearance, that is.

 

“I think my life might be a little more complicated than yours,” he chuckles, eyes sparkling with a light-hearted mirth as he turns towards me and lets the briefs drop into the hamper. Christ, I’ll remember this sight until I die.

 

Trimmed. Not razored into a shape, and I’m glad for it; that would be too artificial and not really within the realm of Elliot’s taste, I think. The natural growth of his pubic hair is allowed to make a delicate trail down to the base of a nicely-sized dick, uncircumcised, foreskin short enough to expose just a hint of the tip. I try not to focus too much on his crotch. Fortunately for me, his eyes are just as infectious. I hold his gaze as he steps closer, cautiously getting to my feet.

 

“May I pat you dry?” he asks, reaching for a small towel from the laundry shelves.   
  
I can’t really reply in my current state, but I lift my nose towards the ceiling to expose my muzzle for him. Wistfully, he crouches down and gently blots the last of the fountain water from my white fur with the towel.    
  
“Much better,” he coos, fingers in the ruff of fur at my neck again. He seems to be fond of that. “Come, I’d like to show you my prized possession. I keep it in my room.” Dipping his head, he kisses the air beside my nose before he draws himself up again, slipping past me and back out into the hall. Reeling with shock, I take a moment to shake myself back to my senses before I bound after him. Elliot’s room. Elliot’s room! I’m going to see where he  _ sleeps _ !


	3. Masterpiece

I gave Elliot enough of a head start to be able to enjoy the view as I followed him through the halls of his home, my wolfen paws padding quietly on the ornate rugs underfoot. Fashion be damned: his backside is even more exquisite without any fabric in the way, from subtle ripple of fat in his cheeks to the graceful lines made by his hips extending all the way down his legs. I’m so lost in it that when he stops at an unmarked door I misstep and stumble forwards, the rubbery tip of my nose bumping into his thigh. God, are there any more ways I can falter in front of Elliot Lane tonight? Perhaps fate would like me to knock over a priceless antique, next.

 

Shaking my head in a flurry that puffs out my fur, I prick my ears up and glance at him with my big, golden-brown eyes, looking for signs of revulsion, of ridicule in his eyes. There is only patience. A kind and inviting inclination of his head as he opens the door. In that moment it feels like I could cry; fortunately, wolf eyes aren’t really good for that sort of thing. Without any telling signs of my emotions, I’m able to pull myself together and venture into Elliot’s bedroom.

 

It’s almost a shame that he’s rich. The first thing I can smell is how clean it is; the housekeeper must do an excellent job and they must do it frequently, for I can barely pick up the heady, lived-in scent that you’d often find in people’s bedrooms. Chairs where they’ve sat for hours and hours, personal belonging they’ve touched a thousand times or more. All dusted, vacuumed and wiped down, robbed of Elliot’s aroma; it’s a crying shame. But there is one place that can’t possibly be cleaned daily; it would be too disruptive. With tunnel vision, I lop into the centre of the room and jump up onto a handsome, four-poster bed in mahogany, its pillows and duvets done up in a soft French Grey with embroidered flowers in the nouveau style. Yes, I can smell him here; I can even tell that sleeps with a preference to the right-hand side of the bed, even when he is alone.

 

I can’t help myself: I sniff along the space where he sleeps at night and in the next moment I am rubbing my face against the expensive cotton, flipping over onto my back and worming against it as though I somehow might infuse the scent into my own fur. After the initial bout of euphoria passes, I realise just how much I’ve let myself go and jolt upright onto my stomach again, looking back at the doorway. Elliot has crossed the room somewhat, still moving as he chuckles at me with his pale fingertips pressing to his lips.

 

“I suppose that is a rather wolf-like thing to do, isn’t it?” he muses aloud, reaching a tall wooden wardrobe standing on carved, curved legs. Not a walk-in room, mind you; an old-fashioned wardrobe, a stand-alone piece of furniture which he opens to a selection of clothes hanging neatly, organised by colour. Trust Elliot to buck the trend of micro-museums full of needless affluence. My own father has an entire wall unit dedicated to ties alone and oh god, I loathe it. This carefully curated closet is a refreshing change. I watch keenly as he pulls out an eggshell blue silk robe and slips his arms through the sleeves, tying the sash low around his hips.

 

I can’t even say I’m mourning the loss of him fully nude, for seeing the way the fabric drapes from the slope of his shoulders is just as enticing. Oh, to be human in this moment! I want to wrap my arms around him and pull him back against my chest just to feel the silk press against my skin, to feel the warmth of his body underneath. To push my nose against the shell of his ear and tell him how much I love him, how perfect he is. Lost in the lovely, warm, drifting thoughts of this fantasy I have made, I relax on the bed and let my gaze drift around the rest of the room.

 

It’s all gorgeous and tasteful, of course; I find that bedrooms are often an excellent reflection of people’s taste. The flutter of chiffon curtains catches my eye and I see the room is partly lit by moonlight streaming in through a large bay window set with a padded seat and a small collection of cushions in blue and white with just a hint of silver embroidery. The golden glow of a lamp at a writing desk flanked by well-stocked bookshelves is a bit out of place in the colour scheme of the rest of the room but I understand that yellow light is better for the eyes at night, so it’s practical, and that’s okay. I don’t think Elliot would be quite so appealing if his beauty trespassed into the territory of the silly and cumbersome, after all.

 

I hear the click of a light switch and the rest of the bedroom is illuminated properly but there isn’t much else to see except for the wall directly in front of the bed. There, as large as life, hanging on a wall of its own like a portrait of a North Korean dictator, was a masterpiece. I know it’s Elliot’s prized expression without him even saying a word, for how could it not be? Fully alert once more, I hop down from the bed and stalk closer to get a look, joining him by his side where he must stand every single morning to admire it.

 

For the posing session, he must have stood nude in a shallow pool like some kind of Venus and had an entire bucket of deep, red paint poured over him. The portrait only captures him from the waist up but I don’t care. The effect is striking; with the glistening detail captured by the oil paints and the darker hues used, the image itself still looked wet, like blood. Except for the eyes; his eyebrows must have diverted the flow of paint, leaving two pale spears of clean flesh. An inverse weeping Madonna.

 

“Isn’t it marvellous to behold?” he smiles, reaching down to stroke the crown of my head. “I would have commissioned more but unfortunately the artist died not long after its completion. It is a crying shame; I would have liked very much to be his patron until he was unable to paint any more, but he passed away before I was able to intervene.”

 

God, why didn’t I become an artist? Why did I have to study an utterly banal Bachelor of Commerce like millions of boring twats before me? Hundreds of lectures, exam after exam, countless hours looking in on mundane meetings during internships at my father’s company… I could have spent all this time learning to paint, mastering the craft, getting skilled enough to capture Elliot’s image on canvas. Then it could be _me_ being kept in the divine union between artist and patron! I’m furious at myself.

 

His lips tickle the edge of my ear and I freeze, tail snapping between my legs again. Fuck. I tense as he closes the gap and places a chaste kiss on my head. Suddenly, my mind is blank and all self loathing is forgotten. His mercy is divine.

 

“It’s late,” he murmurs, straightening up again and drifting towards the ensuite door. “Just let me freshen up a little and we can go to bed.”

 

We. He said we. That means we can sleep together. With the slate of my mind wiped clean there’s no friction to slow down the thoughts. The warmth of him, the smell of him, the slow rise and fall of his chest…it’s all in my future! It’s going to happen in hardly any time at all. Close to being overwhelmed, I follow after him in a daze.

 

The bathroom is old fashioned, but old fashioned in the way that very wealthy people can have modern bathrooms crafted to look traditional, rather than the genuine articles which can have so many downsides in terms of wear and tear. It’s roomy, as far as old-fashioned bathrooms go, but not large enough to look empty or desolate despite its minimalism. Another standing mirror by the claw-foot bathtub makes the room look a tad bigger than it is. I catch both of our reflections in it before Elliot turns his attention to the mirror set above a sink in a marble countertop, taking a tube of toothpaste from the ledge shelf beneath it.

 

“I get a little carried away in the library, sometimes,” he chuckles with a slightly guilty grin down at his toothbrush. The room fills with rapid little scrubbing sounds as he brushes his teeth. I take the opportunity to nose around, literally. I’m draw immediately to three expensive-looking bottles lined up on the bathroom counter. Elliot’s colognes. I knew I was right; I knew there were three. Each one is distinctly different from the other. The first is the easiest to identify because he’s been wearing it today - the traces of vanilla still linger on his skin. The label on the bottle says _Sauvage Dior_ . I’m not exactly a connoisseur of designer fragrance, but even I’ve heard of Dior. The next one, I’ve never heard of in my life. The bottle is clear but the label is quite a mouthful: _Maison Francis Kurkdjian Paris Aqua Celestia_. With mint and lime, it’s the freshest of the lot; he wears it more in summer than winter.

 

The final bottle doesn’t seem have any words on it other than _PARIS_ , but the top of the bottle is a small bust of a Roman emperor, so it’s fitting. It’s also my favourite of the three; leaning closer and sniffing keenly, I can still catch the notes of lavender and jasmine in amongst the spices.

 

“Would you like a spritz?” he titters, dabbing at his rosy lips after rinsing his mouth. Startled, I shrink back from the shelves as though burned, turning myself around and sticking close to the wall. I’m hardly worth something like that!

 

“I suppose it might be a little overwhelming to a wolf’s nose, when actually sprayed,” he reasoned aloud, watching my reaction with raised eyebrows. Shrugging, he turns back to the mirror. I watch as he applies a drop of oil to his forehead, chin and either cheek, then rubs it in with his hands. Rubbing the rest into his hands, he caps the small bottle and heads towards his bed.

 

I have to admit that I imagined a man such as Elliot having a more elaborate skin care routine. He clearly showers in the morning (I’d certainly know if he wasn’t bathing on a daily basis) so perhaps he does the bulk of it then. Perhaps I should be taking notes. Haha. As if skin care would help a case like me. Besides, there are much more pressing matters at hand. Barely able to suppress my joy, I bound up onto the left side of the bed, my body heavy enough to make the mattress springs squeak.  
  
He laughs, and it’s a young, delighted sound, like a bell, and I let myself get caught up in it and push my face closer to his, snuffling around his hairline and even lapping my tongue over the perfect shell of his ear. Giggling, he lets himself be pushed back against the cushions, pressing his fingers to his mouth as he squirms but doesn’t fight me off. Everything is going to quickly that I barely have time to catch up and agonise over every little thing; it’s glorious. Deciding to finish on a high note, I withdraw and settle myself down proudly on my belly, still leaning up on my front legs.

 

“Are you comfortable?” he asks me with a smirk.

 

Dwelling on it for a moment, I let my head drop down to the mattress and give in to the instinctive urge to roll over onto my side. I can’t even remember the last time I stayed in my wolf body long enough to fall asleep in it. We’re still on the top of the covers but he doesn’t seem to mind. Laying like this, the full curve of my furry back is facing him. He shifts onto his side in kind and presses his lean body closer to my fur. My spine tingles as I realise I’ll be keeping him warm tonight. 

 

“Good night…” he says quietly. The pitch of it has a pause as though it should be followed by a name, but he doesn’t have a name to say. It’s Peter, but he doesn’t know that. He might have said ‘wolf’ or made up something entirely but I’m glad he didn’t. It would have felt tawdry, somehow. It’s better like this. I let my eyes close as his delicate wrist lays on top of my chest.

 

I don’t ever want to wake up. Just let me die here; it won’t ever get better.


	4. Good Morning!

I awake to the warmth of an erection pressing into my back.   
  
My back.    
  
My back; my bare,  _ smooth  _ back.    
  
My eyes snap open and my blood runs cold as I realise I’ve turned human again in my sleep. It takes every ounce of my self control not to tear myself out from under the bedcovers and run for my life. Easy now, Peter; for god’s sake, don’t wake him!    
  
Oh fuck, I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. I’m not even standing and it’s sent me weak at the knees. Why now?! Why me?! I can’t change back, either; it’s not exactly a subtle thing, it’s a fucking miracle that he hasn’t woken up already. And I feel dog-tired, pardon the phrasing, but it’s true. To pull away from the softness of this bed and the illicit heat of Elliot’s perfect prick is agony, but I force myself to do it. Nice and carefully, nice and slow, like the gorgeous god behind me is a bomb that might go off at any moment.    
  
With scarcely even a single creak in the mattress, I escape the bed and creep like an exaggerated caricature towards the nearest port of safety: the ensuite. I know what you’re thinking; I wouldn’t do well in a horror movie. But the bathroom door, silently swung shut without actually closing, gives me the obscurity I need to  _ breathe _ . Sat with my back against the bathroom cupboards, safe from the judgement of the mirror and (hopefully) God, I hug my knees and breathe in nice and deep through clenched teeth. I let it out slowly, like my therapist taught me, and it helps, but not entirely.    
  
I’m so hard, truly. Deep breath in. Elliot Lane’s cock was  _ touching  _ me. What if he’d had a wet dream?!    
  
Deep breath out, two, three, four… I’m not escaping with a stiffy, that’s for sure. Fuck me. There’s only one thing I can do to take care of it. With a deep breath in, I spread my knees. The breath out comes even slower through my nose, my teeth clamped around the meat of my left forearm for safety. My right hand grasps my cock and pushes my foreskin up over the head, twisting gently. If could just get a bit of pre going, this might not be such a chore. Unless…   
  
My eyes open again and I slowly release my arm, acutely aware of the bathroom counter behind my head. If I turn my head to the side I can just make out the expensive-looking bottle of the oil he put on his face last night. It’s better than nothing, in fact, the thought that Elliot’s used it makes it a bit exciting. I’ve come this far, haven’t I? Here’s hoping that Elliot was so rich that he didn’t keep track of how much skin product he was using.    
  
I feel properly scandalous using the fancy dropper to drip oil up and down the length of my cock and I don’t dare grip myself until the lid is back on the bottle and it’s safely back in place. Carefully twisting back down onto my arse, I spread the oil over my skin with my thumb and give myself a few pumps.  _ Definitely  _ better than nothing. Oh, fuck! The vision of Elliot inviting me to come home with him fill my head and my breath hitches. Eyes rolling into the back of my head as I play with myself in long, firm strokes, I bite into my arm again to keep myself quiet. I’m sure it’s bruising but that doesn’t stop it feeling good. His cock  _ touched  _ me! I can still feel the warmth of it, it’s like my skin’s got a memory. His hands, too, even through a towel, even on my wolf body, all the thoughts of it flood my head as my hand speeds up and it’s not long before I’m clamping my thighs together and gritting my teeth together in a silent scream, both hands desperately trying to contain the cum spurting from my prick.   
  
What a fucking mess. There’s nothing else for it, is there? This isn’t going to be pleasant, but I can’t leave any evidence. Cupping my spunk in my hands, I wrinkle my nose and wolf it down, so to speak. I even scrape my thighs and lick my hands clean. It’s bitter; serves me right for being such a fucking failure. What’s this turning back all about, anyway? Talk about performance anxiety! I’ve stayed wolf for a solid week before, easy-peasy. Admittedly, that was after a full meal and not the Lean Cuisine I made of Mr. Janitor before Elliot interrupted me...   
  
Fuck me, I’ve left the corpse in the maintenance room. Right, that settles it; it’s time to get moving. Thanks, Elliot, it’s been lovely, really, but if I don’t get a wriggle on, the entire world’s going to come crashing down around me.   
  
Getting onto my hands and knees, I slowly pull the bathroom door open and take a peek. It looks like Elliot is still sleeping. Too terrified to stand up, I resign to crawling, as quietly as possible, spent cock like a tail hanging between my legs. God, this is demeaning. At least if he does wake up and see me like this, I’ll die immediately.    
  
Reaching up with one hand and wincing, praying, barely daring to look behind me, I turn the bedroom door knob and open it slowly. Not a single peep out of Elliot; typically, he sleeps like an angel, even when his dick is tenting the bedsheet. I soak in one last look before I carry on out into the hall. I don’t know exactly how Elliot is going to rationalise a full-grown wolf just up and leaving through a door that requires the use of opposable thumbs, but that’s just a mystery that he’s going to have to deal with, frankly. I’m sure he’ll handle the whole thing with his charming, unaffected whimsy. Some of us are scum with messes to clean.   
  
It’s easier to breath once I’m standing on my own two feet. Still, it’s not quite time to relax entirely; I tip-toe down the stairs and make like a mouse to the front door, peeking out the windows on either side. It’s early. Good. Just a quick nip outdoors in the nude, crunch my bones back into wolf form, bound back to the school grounds to take care of a corpse and then it’s back home in time for breakfast.   
  
A nice, brisk start to the morning. 


	5. A Tense Home Life

I took care of it. It wasn’t easy, but I took care of it. My house isn’t actually that far from Chateau Du Elliot (we’re posh too, after all) but since I had to leg it all the way to college and back again, _and_ drag a body out to the woods in between that, I’m red in the face by the time I stagger through the front door. At least I’m not naked any more, thanks to having the foresight to stash some tracksuits around campus. This is important, because one of my mainstay alibis is basically--   
  
“Off at the gym, were you?”   
  
My father’s wrinkled nose precedes him. I should have known he’d be set up at the breakfast table with his newspaper by now.   
  
"Yeah."  
  
“Yes,” he corrects me, not looking up from the article. Taking the furthest seat away from him, I grab a piece of toast with a scowl. I don’t have to sneak a look at the paper to know he’s either looking at the Politics section, or the Letters to the Editor. My father is a member of parliament, and a Tory, to boot. Needless to say, we don’t get on well. He doesn’t even know I’m gay, let alone madly in love with the most beautiful man on earth.

It wasn’t always _quite_ so hostile between us, you know, even with the secret sexuality. There was a time when he was grooming me to become his perfect little political successor. I remember. Well, that all ended after my little accident, didn’t it? Now, he can barely stand to look at me. Chewing my toast and jam with a grim determination, I frown at the black-and-white print wall he’s put up between us.   
  
“Awfully common to spend so much time at the gym, isn’t it?” he remarks snidely, turning a page.   
  
“It helps me feel safe,” I reply gruffly, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand and grab another piece of toast.   
  
The newspaper doesn’t move. Tosser. I tear through three more pieces of toast, six slices of bacon and two pork sausages before I abruptly get to my feet and thunder up to my room.   
  
“ _Chair_ ,” his haughty command follows me up the stairs. I didn’t push it in on purpose. Sod him.   
  
Obviously, I’m not occupying the master bedroom, but as an only child I enjoy the privilege of a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom which also has a door out into the hall. It’s quicker to just go into the bathroom so I can have a quick shower before I get ready for college, but when I open the door and my reflection greets me, I freeze.   
  
The mirror is back, in all its oval glory. It’s been a blank wall for nearly a year, now.   
  
“Hello, dear.”   
  
_Mum_ . I try not to be too stiff when she cups my cheek and kisses my cheek on the right-hand side. It’s always the right-hand side, on purpose. I’m livid, to say the least, but I know it’s not her fault.   
  
“I’m not ready for this,” I grind out quickly.   
  
“Try to bear it for a few days, Peter,” she coos, patting my short crop hair like I’m a spooked dog. I know that sounds like it might be insulting, but she’s done it ever since I was a little kid. It helps a bit. “Your father’s got guests staying. We can take it down again after.”   
  
“You could’ve warned me,” I grumble, turning my back on the bathroom. “I would’ve showered at the gym.”   
  
“Well, I _was_ going to tell you last night,” she gives me a knowing look. “Did you pull another all-nighter at the library, or were you really off at some party?”   
  
My mother may bend to my father’s will, but she does love me. Only someone who loves me could be blind to the fact that I’m not cool enough to get invited to parties. Perturbed by how close she’s staying, I realise that she’s scrutinising my left eye. “I’m not doing drugs, mum!” I huff, barging past her to go directly to my room. There’s a packet of wet wipes in my drawers from some of my more unscrupulous private activities, and I’m not above taking a backpacker’s bath if it means I don’t have to be confronted by the sight of my own face.   
  
“I’ll tell your father you’re staying at Adam’s for a few days, shall I?” she sighs.   
  
“Love you too, mum,” I mumble before I shut the door. How dense my web of lies has become. Adam is a nerdy little shut-in working on his Masters in Engineering, with no other friends, an XBox, and a spare camp bed in his mother’s basement that he’s all too happy to let me use if it means he gets to enjoy my company. Adam also doesn’t exist. I can’t say I’m at the gym every single time I’m missing, can I? I need contingencies.

At least I started the day so early that I can take my time getting ready. Stripping off my tracksuit and rubbing wet wipes over my armpits, I look around my room with a sigh. Considering my family’s income, it’s as bog standard as they come. I’ll admit that it’s only recently that I’ve started mixing with ‘rougher sorts of crowds’, as my parents would call them, and I am grateful not to be living in a block of council flats, but… it just feels so hollow after seeing where Elliot sleeps. Soulless; impersonal, even. I don’t know a thing about decorating; to be honest, I let Mum pick out some designs and then I chose from the final three. While you could describe my room as a photo shoot for a furniture store catalogue, Elliot’s would be more like a jaw-dropping spread for _Vogue_ magazine.   
  
I feel helpless about the thing! Dad would have a stroke if I said I wanted to study something arty-farty like fashion or interior decorating. What am I supposed to do?! With timber accents and a rich, red bedspread, the room gives me a vague ‘hunting lodge’ vibe. Am I supposed to get a bloody stag’s head mounted on the wall or something? Is that what makes it unique and quirky? I don’t think taxidermy is going to make me happy. No... I could pay someone to do this all for me; a decorator, a personal shopper, a stylist, the works, but it wouldn’t make me happy. It’s not as impressive if someone else has to do it for me. It won’t magically make me trendy.

The only thing _impressive_ thing about me is the wolf, and it’s been made very clear to me on numerous occasions that I’ll be ripped to pieces if I go public with _that_ juicy little tidbit of my story. Rubbing my eye, I try to shake away the memory of cold bricks against the back of my head and a hand around my throat.

The slope of Elliot’s pale, nude shoulder. Oh, now, that’s a much better vision. Closing my eyes, I let it carry me through the motions of dressing in a navy-blue suit.   
  
Yes, I do wear suits to college. It may not be original, but it’s a easy way to look smart and it keep my father happy, which is very useful. Not to mention that I fill it out quite nicely. Just one of the little perks to the whole ‘having to consume human flesh’ thing, no gym needed. Sod the gym; I’ve got the membership so it shows up on my credit card, but I’ve only gone in a few times just to see how strong I’ve gotten. It turns out I can lift my own body weight very easily: not bad for a beginner. I’m sure I could improve with some training (I’ve seen some human-wolves throw men around like in the movies) but… well. That’s not really my scene. _My_ scene calls for a briefcase and a dress shirt buttoned all the way up to the top. But no tie. Is that trendy? We’ll see.   
  
“Bye, mum,” I call out as I gallop down the stairs again. I leave my father unaddressed; with my heightened sense of hearing, I can catch a vague grunt of approval as he sees the briefcase in my hand, so he’s happy.   
  
“Goodbye, darling,” Mum calls after me. “Do send a text if you’re staying at Adam’s this evening!”   
  
Good old mum. I really should try to remember, so she doesn’t worry. Still, as I get closer and closer to the university grounds, my mind starts buzzing. There’s just a teensy morning lecture to get through before I can leg it to the library, where my prince will be joining me just as soon as he’s done with his own class commitments, which, according to my watch, should be any minute now.   
  
“Peter! Thought I’d find you here.” An arm claps around my shoulders and nearly makes me scream. In my panic, I catch a glimpse of spiked, bleach-blond hair. Fuck me, it’s Graham from my Business Studies class. In my efforts to be around Elliot as much as possible, I must have earned my own reputation for haunting the library, making it all too easy for this future nightclub and/or escort service owner to find me.   
  
“What the hell are you doing?!” I hiss indignantly, shrugging his arm off violently while trying to keep my voice down.

“Easy, mate, easy,” Graham chortles, showing me his palms as he backs off. “Came to see if you’re interested in Friday night’s foam party.”  
  
A _foam party_ ? What the fuck would I be doing at a foam party?! This has to be about money.   
  
“Gonna be the hottest party this week, big boy,” Graham sticks his hands inside his pockets with a smug expression. “Just fifty quid and I can get you through the door. A hundred for VIP.”   
  
I’m about to tell him where he can shove his party tickets when a familiar scent creeps up my nose and my heart skips a beat.   
  
“Excuse me,” Elliot Lane’s voice politely cuts in on our exchange. “But what’s a foam party?”   
  
Graham’s chest swells at the query. “Gonna be loads of fun, Elliot,” he beamed. “Basically, the whole dance floor is flooded with foam, waist-deep. Some people even turn up in their knickers, if it takes their fancy. If _you_ want to come, absolutely no charge if you let me post it on my Instagram feed.”   
  
A moment of sheer terror grips me as I watch Elliot take in this information. If he wants to go, of course, I’m going, but I really don’t want to go to Graham’s stupid pseudo-orgy foam party. I mean, I know he likes unique experiences, but the thought of Elliot anywhere where there’s drum and bass blasting is just _bizarre_.

“Oh,” the curiousity fades from Elliot’s face. Yes! “I’m not sure that would translate well, artistically.”

“You what?” Graham asks bluntly.

“I love paintings,” Elliot gushes, clasping his hands together. “They’re just such a charming way to capture memories. I try to commission at least one a month for my gallery.”

Now it’s Graham’s turn to lose all interest in the conversation. Ha! I knew Elliot’s brand of weird wouldn’t be compatible with the likes of him. Up yours, Graham.  
  
“Er, right,” Graham says evasively, already starting to shuffle away. “Well, I’ll let you know if we ever do a spin on the festival of colours or something, yeah? If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go make a phone call.”

“I’d love to see the festival of colours someday,” Elliot carries on musing. I freeze like a deer in the headlights, wondering if he’s talking to me. “Asia is such a marvellous continent, but I haven’t even been to visit Singapore in so long…”

I’m still scrambling for a cool, witty reply when he starts drifting away to his usual seat. No! It hurts to watch him leave. Slumping with my head in my hands, my eyes dart around, anxious about how many witnesses there might be to my devastation.

The contrast of white against rich, brown skin catches my eye and I glance to my left to see a young Indian man watching Elliot with his eyes practically bulging. Prakash Singh. We don’t have class together, but we started in the same year so I remember him from orientation. I see him around quite a lot, actually, and that’s what worries me. His skin is too dark to tell if he’s blushing, but the way he’s looking at Elliot sets me on edge.

He best not be getting any ideas.


	6. Trouble Brewing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ‘Sixth form’ means highschool, basically.

The library is normally a soothing place for me. Nourishing, as Elliot would put it. Just as Elliot has his usually table directly below his portrait, I have my own usual spot nearby, adjacent, so I can bask in his beauty without being too obvious about it. Even with such a perfect picture in the corner of my eye, I do actually get a lot of work done. More than I need to, in fact. Writing out my notes twice over or revising the same passage multiple times actually does wonders for my memory recall, so I perform well in academia despite my rigorous ‘extra-curricular’ activities.  
  
Normally.  
  
Today, I can barely concentrate, plagued with worry that Prakash might be Elliot’s type. Is he handsome? He might be. I’m biased towards Elliot, naturally, but I suppose Prakash could still be called handsome, conventionally. With thick, straight eyebrows and an angled jawline with a manicured beard that complements his square hairline… Shit! The more I study him, the more good-looking he gets! My hand balls tight into a fist around my pen, nervously glancing back towards Elliot.  
  
Oblivious and serene. After his little interaction with Graham, he hasn’t paid a lick of attention to anybody else, Prakash included. He’s just writing out his notes with a white feather quill. I suppose that’s reassuring, but then again, I have a neurotic personality.  
  
How often does Prakash come to the library? Does he come here to watch Elliot, just like me? I feel so stupid for having such a bad case of tunnel vision; I couldn’t answer these questions even if a gun was held to my head. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not naive. Elliot’s beauty doesn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the student body. Even though it’s well-known that he prefers men, you’ll still get some giggling freshmen girls coming up to him from time to time. He’s shattered more than a few straight-out-of-sixth-form egos by declining requests for selfies, and the fangirls often lose interest once they find out he’s gay _and_ doesn’t have social media, to boot.  
  
And then there are the men, who have more of a chance, but still not always. When it comes to courting Elliot Lane, you really have to nail it. It’s been a full month since he actually accepted someone’s advances, and the guy had to take him to his family’s vineyard all the way in Spain for the privilege. But he’s reliable, to say the least: come Monday after their weekend getaway, and you’d think the romantic encounter had never happened. One shot, and you have to nail it. Except for the fabled photographer, Noticer of Beauty Marks, who may very well be the luckiest man on Earth. I can’t bank on something incredible like that happening to me.  
  
I’m getting off-track. The point is, these men are fleeting, but I’ve never noticed anyone else quite like me. Always hanging around, watching from afar, waiting. If Prakash has been spying on Elliot too, who knows when he might make his move--  
  
Fuck me! He’s gone up to Elliot’s table already! My heart leaps inside my chest, my pen hand jolting and sending a spurt of ink over my notes. Stupid fucking thing! Why did I buy this fountain pen, thinking Elliot would notice me?!  
  
“ _Archery_ ?” I make out Elliot’s surprised reply to something. Swearing under my breath, I pull my handkerchief from my pocket and blot at my paper, trying to act as though I’m caught up in my own little bubble while shamelessly eavesdropping. “If I’ve ever shot a bow and arrow, I’m afraid I don’t remember. Whyever do you ask?”  
  
“Oh, I just had a feeling,” Prakash answers. His accent is heavy, but each word is enunciated perfectly, so his speech sounds different but it’s still easy to understand. “I heard you mention the festival of _Holi_ and I wondered if you might have had an interest in these things.”  
  
“Oh, is that’s what it’s called?” Elliot asks, delighted. Shit! _Shit_ ! It’s stopped spreading on the paper but it’s soaked through the cotton and now it’s on my hands. This can’t be happening! “I’ve never seen it.”  
  
“It’s a springtime festival. I’ve lived here for five years now, but I have been to the festival back home in Agra. It is an incredible feeling of joy in the community.”

Staring down at my ruined handkerchief and ink-stained hands, I realise there’s nothing I can do to stop this from happening. Talking like this has got Elliot hook, line and sinker. Maybe he really has been watching him all this time?!  
  
“I adore spring,” Elliot swoons, setting down his quill. He set down his _quill_ ! “There are always so many beautiful flowers.”  
  
“Of course you do,” Prakash says warmly There must be something in the water in India that gave him this kind of confidence.  
  
“Are there many flowers in Agra?”  
  
“We used to import most of ours from West Bengal,” Prakash recalls, fingering his beard, “but there are many flowers, all over India. We use them in Hindu rituals.”  
  
Elliot is positively starry-eyed at this point, chin resting in his hand. “I really must travel more,” he coos. “I’ve become such a homebody recently, but I suppose that goes hand in hand with studying.”  
  
“If… if you like flowers, Elliot,” Prakash leans forward, reaching out to take hand resting on the desk, next to Elliot’s quill. My heart sinks when I see it. Taking in a deep breath, I force myself to imagine that I’m being watched (and honestly, who knows, I might be) and slowly begin packing up my things. Not too quickly; I need to see how this pans out or I’ll go crazy. “Perhaps you would like to visit my garden sometime? I think you would enjoy it very much.”

My heart’s pounding. Of course, Elliot could always say ‘no’. I’ve seen him decline dozens of things, even offers that sounded like they were straight out of rom-com movies. It was so difficult to get a read on him at first, to understand the kind of thing that had to be on the table in order to get him to agree. Even to this day, he still throws the odd curve ball every now and then. But even though he’s said ‘no’ to helicopter flights over London at night and trips to Tahiti, I have a terrible feeling that a carefully cultivated, little suburban garden would still, inexplicably, be right up Elliot’s alley.  
  
“I think I would, too,” Elliot smiles, eyes bright. “What time would be convenient?”  
  
“It would take some time to make the necessary preparations,” Prakash muses. Just what exactly is he preparing?! “But if I leave now, I could be ready by tomorrow evening.”  
  
“Then I’ll visit tomorrow night,” Elliot picks up his quill again, producing a miniature notebook from his satchel. “Could you tell me your address, please?”  
  
Feeling as though my limbs are moving through some kind of heavy, intangible water, I close my briefcase and take my leave. Hearing the address isn’t my top priority. Truly, there’s no need. There’s a notice board on the wall near the library entrance. I take up a spot in front of it, feet shoulder-width apart, and stare at the messages vacantly as though language clubs and beer fridges for sale and even Graham’s sodding foam party were terribly interesting to me. I practically feel the air shift behind me when Prakash walks past. I wait another moment and take another deep breath before adjusting my grip on my briefcase and following after him.  
  
And just like that, I’m walking, trying to look like I have my own destination in mind instead of simply following the handsome Indian man in front of me. He’s already got his phone out, making calls in a language that I don’t understand and even if I did, the words are coming too quickly. It’s convenient, really; it stops him from noticing me. Of course, I could stalk him much more easily in wolf mode, but I can’t exactly pull that off in broad daylight, so suited scholar it will have to be.  
  
I’m following him home. I know it sounds crazy, but there’s no turning back now. We’re practically off the school grounds already. I don’t know how, but I have to figure out if Prakash really is a threat or if he’s just another one-time wonder.  
  
The latter, hopefully.


	7. Flowers

Following Prakash home, it occurs to me that he may live in a terraced house. I mean, if his garden’s as good as he says it is, then he’s definitely not in a flat and not to be rude, but if he lived in a house like mine, then I’d probably know of him a bit better than ‘that guy from orientation week’. No… Prakash Singh is not upper class, sorry. And it’s terraced homes all along this street. Eyeing the fortress of red brick as I walk behind him at a discrete distance, I worry. With no gaps between them, each home is barely distinguishable from the other, and if I have to go all the way around to the gardens at the back, there’s a good chance I won’t even get the right garden, even if I count. Fuck.  
  
_Another_ phone call? This man is a machine! I still can’t understand a lick of anything. What is he _doing_ ? My mind wanders to the most terrible ideas, naturally: some kind of elaborate, Elliot-kidnapping ring. The garden was just a ruse to lure him in, and then they’ll blind and gag him and before you know it he’s in a horse shipping crate on his way to Delhi.   
  
No. Ridiculous. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

We’re past the terrace homes now. I’m surprised Prakash didn’t just catch a shuttle, living this far out. He looks fairly muscular under those jeans… perhaps this walk is just part of his daily exercise routine?

He makes a right turn and once I catch up, I know which house is Singh’s before he even opens the gate. It’s the only house (well, more like a cottage, really) on the street with roses in the front garden. Another one further down has one rosebush but that’s _nothing_ compared to the lineup of eight… no, ten bushes along the garden path, each one with blooms in a different shade of pink, orange, red, yellow…

That alone would be impressive enough if one was an old lady, but of course it’s not just that, is it? Even from here, I can see flower beds and herb gardens set up - not a patch of boring old lawn in sight. And that’s just the _front_ garden. These aren’t terraced homes (thank god) - there are paths running down the side of the cottages to get to the back, and I’m sure that’s where the magic is going to happen.

Trying to look as natural as possible, I approach the gate to the house next door. At a glance, the place looks deserted, and that’s good, because even though I open the gate and walk officiously down the path with my briefcase, I have absolutely no intention of knocking on the front door. Once I reach the step, my heart pounding at the thought of one thousand neighbours watching me from across the street, I abruptly turn on my heel and and walk along the path to the fence between the two gardens, past some trees that will hopefully obscure me from view on the street. I hear Prakash’s keys in the lock at the front door, and I jump the fence as soon as I hear the door swing shut behind him.

… Straight into a patch of mint that’s practically knee high. For god’s sake, how many herbs does the man need!? There’s even more all the way down the side of the house; thyme, coriander, garlic, basil, and even more I can’t immediately identify. Still, no harm done, right? Mint’s supposed to be pretty hardy, I think. Better having some mint-scented trousers than having knocked off a man’s irreplaceable, prized orchid.

Creeping down the side of the cottage, I hear the tell-tale metallic ring of water running inside pipes. Whether he’s having a proper shower or just washing his face, that’s good news for me. It’ll give me time to find a good place to hide where I’ll be able to keep an eye on things without…

Oh. _Oh_ , it’s _repulsive_ how good this garden is. That humble prick, he actually managed to undersell it. It must’ve taken _years_ to set all this up. Big, blooming frangipani trees flank the back corners and from there, it’s tiered layers of greenery and bursts of colour with flowers of all kinds. I don’t know all their names, but it seems to be a mix of Indian and British plants… more roses, marigolds, camellias, lavender, pansies (I think)... There’s a curved pond right in the middle of it all, complete with flowering lilypads. Inside the curve, there’s an elevated platform with a worn but colourful mat laid out on it. I have to assume the man’s been meditating. Or praying. Is Prakash Muslim or Hindu? Am I being racist for assuming he’s either? I know there are other things, but don’t you have to wear a turban if you’re a Sikh?

The _clunk_ of water hammer inside the house spurs me back into action and I race through the narrow stepping-stone paths to find a hiding place. There’s a cluster of sizeable camellia bushes near the back of the garden that are high enough for me to peek out from underneath, with enough flowers in front that it’s very unlikely I’ll be seen. So I sit down, and I wait. I feel a bit like one of those people who show up way too early for a movie or a new iPhone, but something has to happen eventually, right? Prakash said something about arrangements, and this way if he really is planning something horrible instead of a lovely evening, I can put a stop to it. By going wolf, if necessary. Anything to keep Elliot safe.

If it is lovely, though… well. All thoughts of potential sabotage were reluctantly set aside the moment I saw this setup. There’s no way I can make Elliot miss this. I can already picture his face when he sees the flowers; the way he perks up as if the beauty has roused him from his usual serene daze. He looked at me like that, you know. When he ran his hands through my fur.

Fortunately for my stomach, I had the foresight to buy a sandwich from Pret A Manger on the way to college, so I take it out of my briefcase and eat it now. I guess it’s my lunch and dinner combined, and then all of tomorrow’s meals, too, because I’m not moving from this spot until Elliot shows up. Far too risky to be coming and going from this spot now that I’m here. Besides, after my meal last night, the wolf will be satisfied for a fortnight, at least. It’s not like I have to kill a man every night. Christ, that’d be anarchy. Can you imagine if a dozen or so werewolves were committing murder every single night? It’s just not sustainable. I know the boss of our pack is very concerned with keeping the numbers down as it is already.

It might be a good time to wolf now, actually. The garden may be pretty and smell nice, but sitting on my arse here in the dirt is hardly comfortable, and it’ll be twice as bad once I get hungry. Far easier to just lay around doing nothing when I’m a wolf, plus it means I won’t have to keep staring at this ink blot on my hand which looks eerily like a Rorschach test. So, I find myself sitting in Prakash Singh’s back garden, shrugging off my suit jacket and trying to fold it to fit in my briefcase without rustling too loudly. It becomes progressively more awkward as my shoes, socks, shirt and pants follow. Underwear next. It’s either strip off entirely, or have my clothes get shredded when I change forms. The last thing I need is scraps of evidence lying around to be found after this.

Sitting completely nude in a stranger’s back garden certainly is an experience. I manage to get all my clothes folded away in my briefcase, then I just place my shoes on top and tuck the whole lot behind a tree. I peek out from under the camellias and see no signs of movement from the house. Better get it over with.

The whole process takes fifteen, maybe thirty seconds? Probably on the slower side of things now since I’m just sitting here with zero adrenaline. It’s always the face first; my jaw sort of cracks forward and elongates and then the fur starts growing from there outward. It does hurt, but probably not as much as you’re imagining, plus it’s over pretty quickly. What’s really creepy is the clicking, clacking sound of my skeleton moving. I’ve gotten used to the pain by now, but the sounds still weird me out.

Once my limbs shorted into wolf legs and a tail grows out of my spine, I flop awkwardly onto my side. It probably would have been best to start on all fours. Shaking my head, I sit up on my stomach and get settled into a position that lets me see the most of the garden, the back door into the cottage (wooden, sadly, not glass, so I’ll have to rely on my hearing) and a window into what might be the kitchen.

It’s another half hour or so before Prakash emerges from his home, and he looks ready to work. The top of his thick black hair isn’t entirely long enough to tie up properly, but he’s still managed to make a tiny top-knot out of it. He’s wearing a white V-neck shirt, pale grey sweatpants and flip flops. It’s pretty easy to guess what he’s planning on account of the mop and bucket in his hands. As an added bonus, he pops on a little radio by the door to a station I can only ignorantly describe as Bollywood, so my matinee viewing even has a soundtrack.

What happens next isn’t particularly exciting, but speaking as a captive audience with no alternatives for entertainment, I have to say that Prakash really goes to town on this garden. All of the paved areas between the pond and the house are hosed down and scrubbed, the windows are washed, the benches and table are wiped… That old meditation and/or prayer mat? Gone. There already wasn’t a weed in sight in this garden but he goes over the flower beds at the front with a set of pruning shears just to make it perfect.

By the time he’s done, he looks exhausted. Hell, I’m thirsty too just from watching him. When he turns off the radio and staggers back into the house, I cautiously stalk out through the flowerbeds and steal a quick drink from the pond. Ugh. Even by wolf standards, stagnant water isn’t appetizing. It isn’t a patch on running water from the stream, by any means. I really should fuck off to the woods for a weekend again, run around, stretch my legs, you know? After all this sitting still, god knows I’ll need it.

When night comes, I’m treated to a yellow-lit window display of Prakash making his dinner. Judging by the time he spends on it and the delicious smells wafting through the cracked window, he must know how to cook, too. Wonderful. Just another thing for me to feel insecure about. At least it’s not particularly appetising to wolf-me. If I were human Peter right now, I’d be salivating. As it is, once the distractions of scent slowly fade away, I lower my head and drift off to sleep.

 

***

 

In the morning, I awaken to a new type of music. Much slower and more serene. Ears pricking up, I open my eyes and glance up to the soft pinky-blue sky of sunrise. My nostrils flare as I see Prakash is in the garden, back bare and turned to me. He’s on the platform in the middle of the pond, and he’s definitely meditating. He’s Hindu, then, I think. I can see his back slowly rise and fall in time with the breathing exercises he’s doing and I find myself following along. It’s so, so easy to nod back off to sleep like this. It’s a good way to conserve energy.  
  
That is, until I am awoken by the chatter of multiple voices. My eyes snap open. It’s much later in the morning; close to midday. Prakash has been joined by several other Indian men in the garden, and they’re erecting something that looks like an arch over the meditation platform, and another one is coming around the side of the house with crates of something on a trolley. I still can’t understand a word of what they’re saying but when they start pulling colourful garlands of flowers and winding them around the arch, I realise they’re decorating. As if the garden wasn’t already enough. What exactly is he planning for, a wedding?!   
  
I wish I hadn’t thought of that. God, I’m so thirsty. When the men finally clear off, Prakash nips around the side of the cottage with a pair of scissors, no doubt harvesting herbs. He’s in the kitchen for the better part of the afternoon, preparing all kinds of dishes, by the smell of it. With him so focused on his culinary delights, I take the opportunity for another, much longer, drink. It tastes much better the second time around when I’m really, truly thirsty.

At some point, he takes a break to receive another delivery, conducting his business with an older man at the wooden table in the garden. It looks like clothes and jewelry; fancy rentals, maybe? At one point I see a long necklace of golden medallions being held up, so that’s what I’m assuming.  
  
Even later, it’s just Prakash with a bag of sand. He scoops some of it into about two dozen paper bags of various colours; magenta, orange, yellow and teal, then places a tea light in each one. I guess tonight will feature lanterns, too. I begrudgingly admire his attention to detail as I roll over onto my side, utterly tired of waiting.

  
***

 

“I’ve never worn such a thing.”  
  
Elliot’s angelic voice makes my eyes snap open. I must have dozed off again, but I’m wide awake now, eyes swiftly adjusting to the dim light and ears twitching at the sound of crickets chirping. It’s twilight, and at some point all of those makeshift lanterns must have been lit and scattered throughout the garden. It’s quite a scene, but it all blurs out to splotches of colour as my gaze zeroes in on the vision of Elliot before me.   
  
Shirtless. His alabaster skin is practically glowing with the colourful lanterns nearby; Prakash must have convinced him to dress up. He’s wearing a loose pair of golden-yellow pants that gather at the ankle, and the necklace of golden medallions is around his neck, long enough to dip below his navel.

Prakash himself is all dressed up, too; in tighter-fitting pants of the same colour and a long, spring-green tunic with an orange stole. Ushering Elliot through the back door, he’s beaming with pride as he gestures to the table laden with all kinds of fragrant dishes, but of course Elliot’s eyes go starry as soon as he sees the flowers and he steps further into the garden with a soft coo of “ _Oh_.”

Tsk. Prakash could have saved himself the trouble of all that cooking. He’d know what Elliot was like if he _really_ watched him like I did, just saying.

Drawn to the arch of flowers like a moth to the flame, Elliot takes a graceful seat on the pedestal in the centre of the pond, which has since been laid with a tasseled cushion, and gently cups one of the garlands with one hand as he looks out at all the other flowers.   
  
“You were absolutely right,” Elliot murmurs aloud, easy to hear. “I really do love this.”   
  
“I had a feeling you might,” Prakash says warmly, approaching him on the left. Apparently, his food being snubbed hasn’t slowed him down one bit. Kneeling by the pond, he reaches out and plucks a lotus from a nearby lilypad.

Just then, the cottage door opens again, and an older man with a greying beard steps out with a canvas tucked under one arm, and that’s when it all clicks. The cleaning, the flowers, the costume, everything. Prakash is a fucking genius. He’s only gone and set up a fantastically brilliant and basically authentic Indian folk painting for him, hasn’t he!? Watching as Prakash presses a lotus into Elliot’s palm, my heart pangs as the man gently coaxes him to turn around so the garden will be behind him for the picture.

The old man sets up his canvas and gives them a few quiet, husky instructions to get them into the pose he wants (it’s difficult to see clearly from this angle) and then he stops to get a camera. I make sure I close my eyes until I hear the shutter click, because the last thing I need if for this old man to go back and check his reference material and spot a great pair of wolf eyes reflecting the flash. He starts getting his paints out, after that; if I know anything about photography, the colours won’t capture nearly as well on film as they would in real life. It seems like Elliot and Prakash are allowed to move a bit, now, so the photo is probably just for the pose.

“I love jasmine,” Elliot sighs contently. Predictably, he twists a little, his gorgeous face in profile so he can still take in the sight of the garden.

Prakash is sitting at his feet, like some kind of disciple of his beauty, gazing up at Elliot as he speaks. From him, I hear a sob, of all things. Is he crying?! I can see the tears welling up in his eyes.  
  
Elliot pauses, looking down with an expression close to pity. Setting the lotus on his knee, he reaches out with an elegant hand, fingertips tilting up the man’s face. Completely unabashed by the artist capturing their likeness, he goes in to kiss him. I tense, transfixed on the scene before me, but Prakash shakes his head just before their lips meet.   
  
“No,” he says. Is he crazy!?   
  
“No?” Elliot asks gently, eyebrows raised.   
  
“No,” Prakash says again, voice wavering. The tears start to roll and he lurches forward, draping himself over Elliot’s knee as he starts sobbing. The words that come next are soft and almost musical, but I don’t understand them because he’s switched to Hindu, again.

I’m gob-smacked, of course, that he would refuse a kiss from Elliot. And then cry about it! Is he closeted or something? Why would he expend so much on a grand gesture like this if he’s that deep in the closet, that self-loathing!? I’m indignant.

Elliot, for his part, doesn’t seem too worried. He places a hand on Prakash’s back, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades in the same way that one might soothe an infant. He was prepared to sleep with him. I hope Prakash understands that. He had one shot to reach nirvana with the most beautiful man on earth and he blew it, right at the finish line. It's like watching Seabiscuit cark it on the final stretch. 

It takes a long time to pose for a painting, and I’ve gone a long time without water. My eyelids grow heavy after about an hour or so, and at some point I register that the crying has been replaced by quiet conversation, barely a whisper. I’m too tired to make out the words.

Then soon, nothing. Sweet sleep.


End file.
